In Hormone's Way
by PynkPlayar
Summary: Growing up was suppose to be easier than this. It was something he had looked forward to. But now: acne, voice cracks, body odor and embarrassment galore - because even the Prince of Tennis goes through puberty.
1. Prologue: The Before and After

******Disclaimer: **Prince of Tennis characters belong to Takeshi Konomi. (durr)  
**Warning:** Pubescent Teen alert and my bad sense of humor, lol.

Growing up is such an awkward time and (in my mind) the Prince of Tennis is really no exception. Tons of fanfics illustrate Ryoma miraculously morphing into the embodiment of beautifulness. But he had to get there with bumps in the road, right? Well, this is my take. Hope you enjoy the read!

* * *

**Prologue: The Before and After**

* * *

If anyone had asked him back then if he wanted to grow up, he would have-as enthusiastically as possible without being checked for clinical insanity-nodded his head and affirmed his desire with an "Hn."

Now, Ryoma Echizen just really wanted to get back to the time he was 12. He just _really, really _wanted to.

But back then, he was naive, and wanted to leave sweet childhood behind.

He had been sick of being pounced on and getting his hair ruffled.

He had been sick of being teased.

He had been sick of being lumped with the other freshman, even when he was _clearly_ superior in tennis, if not in having an expansive vocabulary (as seen in his overuse of hn's and che's. And betsuni. He couldn't live without that one).

He had been sick of being called "kawaii" by those ludicrous fangirls. (He _was not _"kawaii, teehee!" He was hot, he was a stud, he was an ike-men, he was a bishounen, but he was _not friggin' kawaii._)

He had been sick of his Oyaji (that perverted old fart of a man), especially when he called him "Seshounen." (He gave Ryoma his name…why couldn't he use it?)

He had been sick of Ryoga using that disgustingly cute endearment, "Chibisuke." (He was waiting for his growth spurt, dammit!)

He had been sick of Eiji-senpai nonsensical chants of "Ochibi." (Why did he have so many nicknames? And why'd they all have to do with his small stature? It's like adding salt to the wound!)

He had been sick of (and creeped out) when Fuji would smile at him, like he knew something (though that would probably never stop, even if he got older).

He had been sick of Momo-chan-senpai's periodic long glances into blank space and those reminiscent sighs and of "Ah, youth." (Wasn't Momo-chan-senpai only like a year older than him anyways?)

And then there was that time when people doubted he got into the 16-year-old division of Gakino Gizaka Junior Tennis Tournament when he first arrived in America just because he was a kid. People thought it was a registration mistake because he was a kid. People always underestimated him and played lightly against him because he was a kid. They never saw him as a threat because he was a kid. Though, he did enjoyed whipping their butts afterwards and making them suffer the disgrace of losing ten fold since he _was_ a kid.

So back then, getting older could not be seen in a bad light; you would become more independent, you would get taller, and everyone around you would mature. People would actually listen to what you had to say (if you ever decided to formulate a full sentence and break out of monosyllabic hn's and che's).

You would be treated equally as an adult, on par with those other sophisticated persons around you, and everything would be operated in a serious manner. No more goofing off. Life would be strictly business. And you would get respect.

Respect was acknowledgement, proper acceptance, and courtesy. It was suppose to be a _given_.

But respect was something Ryoma could never attain. He was hated by some, yes, but…respect? It really seemed like it was something of the tennis courts, and nothing more than that. Off the green clay, he was just another guy who was a bit vertically challenged and under-aged, making him susceptible to much poking and prodding. Only the tennis record that preceded him allowed him to feel that self-satisfying, ego-boosting, head-lifting respect.

But he didn't want that. He wanted _instantaneous_ respect. It should only take a single glance, a time frame of about 3.4 seconds. If people treated him as they should right off the bat, life would run much smoother. And as adult, he should get that, he _would_ get that.

Look at Tezuka –he embodied the epitome of the ideal adult (not technically, but let's overlook the fact that he's a middle schooler right now). He was strong and filled with so much intellect and knowledge. He had the wisdom, the experience, and the air of an aged 70-year old, despite the fact that he was a fifth of that age.

And because he conducted himself so patiently and composed, everyone overlooked the fact that he was a stick in the mud, that he had not an ounce of social life, that he spent a little too much time with boys, and that he seriously was a robotic product of God who only could function in matters related to tennis and school.

Kunimitsu Tezuka. He got respect. Fo' sho', bro. Peace out yo. Hey, ho, woah. Imma rapper but I ain't a good snapper. Break it down, dawg. Respect.

Anyways, yeah. Kunimitsu Tezuka. Captain of the famed Seishun Gakuen Tennis Team. Kunimistu Tezuka. Former pillar of support. Kunimitsu Tezuka. One of those bespectacled guys. Kunimitsu Tezuka. He has a zone. Tez to the kun. Master of Mitsu jujitsu. Coochy-coochy Kunimitsu. Te-ba-zuka. _That_ was Ryoma's idyllic figure.

And he knew one day (hopefully when he turned 14), he would be able to reach such a high esteemed stature –no, not even—he would be able to _surmount_ that. And he couldn't wait for that day to come.

But then again, back then, he had forgotten there were other parts to growing up.

And now, he _really, really _wished to return back to that youth that Momo-chan-senpai always spoke of.

* * *

**TBC.**

* * *

**A/N: **Was feeling a bit crazy, so sorry if you couldn't follow my weirdness, LOL. And Sakuno will find her way into this, don't worry. Because RyoSaku prevails. Please review!

Edit: Just went in and fixed some wording. And I may or may not still do RyoSaku. As of now, going for a more friendshippy fic. :)

Started 09-19-2009. Finished 11-25-2009. Uploaded 11-26-2009. Edited 06-28-2012


	2. Episode 1: The Boy Who Had BO

**Disclaimer: **Prince of Tennis characters belong to Takeshi Konomi. Mmhmm.  
**Warning: **Massive bowl of Coco Puffs (c), this is total crack. Bear with me.

* * *

**Episode 1: The Boy Who Had B.O.**

* * *

So one fine, crystalline morning, with the birds a-chirping and the leaves a-swaying, the Regulars were doing a quick-paced workout under the infant sun.

After winning Nationals, the great Tezuka-buchou was _so_ impressed with the team's performance that he decided to insert morning workouts into their weekly schedule (as if they weren't already consumed enough by grueling after school practices).

These 30-minute training sessions were hard-core. But thankfully, out of the goodness of his heart, Tezuka-buchou did not increase the number of consecutive laps they had to run.

Instead, he gave them weights. Each one was 5 pounds.

And they wore one on each of their ankles. And additionally on their wrists.

So in short, they were lugging around 20 extra pounds as they ran.

Isn't that Tezuka-buchou such a sweetie? He could have been whack-job crazy and gone for _50 pound weights for each wrist and ankle_, but he decided to be reasonable. Tezuka-buchou could have made them run individually _whilst carrying him_. But then they wouldn't really be running all that well (more like crawling) _and_ Tezuka-buchou wouldn't be able to comfortably watch them from his favorite spot. And if Tezuka-buchou couldn't the watch the Regulars run…well, _that's_ no fun.

He only had their best interests at heart, for he was their fearless leader. And deep down, he loved the Regulars each individually like a son. Some of the Regulars, he _especially_ gave love to a _bit_ more, but that's another story.

Anyways, on that one fine, crystalline morning, with the birds a-chirping and the leaves a-swaying, the Regulars had trudged about, doing their best to keep face. But as laps dragged on, the majority of them (namely Momoshiro and Eiji) stopped caring about looking cool or having any pride. The progression of their running form was much like the stages of Evolution, except in reverse. They did indeed devolve, from man to fish. They had successfully flopped across the finish line with style.

Had they gone any longer, they may have found a way to amoeba about the dirt track. But, you see, they were really fortunate they had such an endearing captain, so they never needed to devolve into one-celled organisms. How quaint.

With the laps finished, the regulars went to get changed and prepare for the pending school day.

After such an intensive workout, most would casually change and unwind. But the team's super freshman—as per usual—swiftly swam out of his tennis clothing, shoved the clothing into his tennis bag, put on his school uniform, and left, leaving the upperclassmen to their own colloquy.

No one could really tell while they were outside, but in the confined small shack like space that they utilized as a locker room, they couldn't help but slowly become aware of a rancid smell that had been following them about. At first it was just an a hint, but as the amount of time they were in there lengthened and their chatter continually expended clear air, they began to become cognizant of an unpleasant odor.

"Dude, what's that stank?"

After sufficiently wafting the air and inspecting the various areas of the locker room, Momoshiro, eyes watering, pointed definitively at an all-too-familiar tennis bag.

"It's…Echizen!"

"O'smelly!" Eiji-senpai concluded.

At this point, the odor engulfed them all, invading their nostrils. Inui had attempted to use the defensive technique of breathing solely through the mouth, but it was much worse. Inui had the honor of experiencing a sensation much like _eating Ryoma's socks_ or _licking his armpits_. As one can imagine, a few seconds of being exposed to that, He Who Typically Put Those Unconscious was now unconscious.

That casualty was enough. The Regulars fled the scene, in hysterics, half-clothed.

For those fortunate enough to be walking the school grounds that early morning, Shuusuke Fuji's boxers were in plain sight.

For those a _bit_ more fortunate, Kunimitsu Tezuka birthday suit was exposed.

(Yes, amidst the chaos, Eiji somehow found an opportunity to thieve the captain of all his clothing)

As to how the Regulars arrived to class impeccably in uniform? Let's just say the Regulars engaged some peers and may have used what would be called "assault" to persuade the gentlemen to lend their uniforms.

.

.

.

Oblivious to the damages he had recently caused, Ryoma Echizen reclined lazily in his chair. He scantly held back the urge to prop his feet up on his desk. He fought it, he _really_ fought it, and he had won—feet remained on the ground.

Ryoma Echizen: taking on life's obstacles one at a time. No applause necessary.

The teacher, aware of his mentally absent student, cleared his throat, thoroughly annoyed.

"Ahem, so I know we are all going through some awkward times of, err, growth and all these bodily changes may be a bit strange for us."

_Especially for me_, thought the teacher. _Damn, I hate teaching preteens_.

"Anyway, please note to use DEODERANT and to PRACTICE GOOD HYGEINE because it's becoming a bit—how should I say this—_uncomfortable _for us all in this closed-spaced classroom."

The teacher then threw a not-so inconspicuous side-glance, which everyone else in the class happened to follow. And it just happened to be directed to Ryoma.

Unfortunately, the tennis prince, who had just begun to battle the urge to release flatulence, did not register the teacher's friendly hint. Oh, farts. Not quite like holding in Number Two and far from combating Number One; nonetheless, the task at hand necessitated the entirety of his concentration.

Ryoma Echizen: taking on life's obstacles one at a time. No applause necessary.

As Ryoma combated his poor bowel movement, the classroom tensed. Not a person spoke, until all at once, a wave of murmurs and whispers crashed on the shores of the room at once.

"Kfff, he maybe the school's prince, but he sure doesn't smell like one!"

"Maybe it's the new rage among royalty, being absolutely repulsive smelling."

"And I thought something had died!"

"It's quite comparable to rotten cheese."

"HAHA, E-_CHEESE_-ZEN!" Horio hollered.

And absolute silence. All eyes were on Horio Satoshi. Someone coughed dryly.

Fortunately, Ryoma, distracted as he was by his flatulence problem, only sat up and blinked by the impromptu disurbance.

_The feeling has passed,_ he thought to himself, smirking slightly at his victory.

_Oh lord_, reflected the teacher, _I should have listened to my wife and gone to med school._

Grimacing conspicuously, he continued openly, "So let's get on with class, shall we? Please open your textbooks to page 291…"

.

.

.

The bell echoed, fracturing the air with its objectionable sound. Ryoma began to collect his things. In his eyes, it had been a relatively uneventful school day. And an uneventful school day is a good day. A gift, even. Humming to himself nonverbally, he swung his school bag over his shoulder, scooted his chair into his desk, turned on his heel, and gallivanted towards the door.

Cough. "Echizen, a word."

If the teacher had been calling for any other students, a epidemic of "Ooooooooh" would have reigned in the classroom. But it was _the_ Ryoma Echizen, so, instead, the students scampered out like vermin.

Ryoma rolled his eyes. There goes the gift, the wonderful gift of an uneventful school day. He turned on his heels once again, and proceeded to drag his feet dramatically over toward the teacher.

_What a brat_, thought the teacher.

_He really needs to do something about that mole_, thought the Ryoma.

Coughing again, the teacher cleared his voice. (_He really needs to stop with the awkward cough thing too,_ cringed Ryoma).

"Echizen, it has come to my attention that in this class, some of the young men have been negligent of proper hygiene practices. You see, as one grows older, the body goes through some changes. It's a rather…interesting process, the whole '_journey _ is, if you will. Nonetheless, with the changes that the body brings, changes will also have to be brought forth to the daily routine, especially in terms of hygiene.

"Some of the fellows in our class in particular, if you know what I mean. Know that no one should be taking offense – it's just that unfamiliarity with the maturing body. Even I, too, went through this 'journey.'

He chuckled. "Sure, it wasn't easy. I know, a shocker right? The glorious man that is before you, even _he_ went through these trials. And he survived. You see, surviving is what being a man is all about…"

_Maybe if I keep talking, he'll get it. I'll just keep going to soften the blow, so the little prick doesn't feel too bad, _concluded the man.

_I want Ponta_, concluded the boy.

This continued for another 7 minutes or so (7 minutes and 48 seconds, but who's looking at the clock behind the teacher's head? Certainly not Ryoma). The teacher divulged into a deconstruction of his pubescent years, lamenting about man-eater girls and spending long hours in bathroom stalls. He coughed again, snapping Ryoma to attention. The sermon was ending.

"Anyway, what I'm trying to tell you is, think of the class, will you? Certain tennis -playing individuals in our classroom are becoming _quite_ careless. And I see you as a role model to the class, a leader, if you will. Therefore, please. It's up to responsibility."

"Hn," affirmed Ryoma. He openly snorted, then turned on his heel one final time for the day, and left.

_What a brat_, thought the teacher.

_I need to pee_, thought the Ryoma.

.

.

.

"We sure lucked out, ne Momo-chi?"

There were no words suited to express his contentment. Momoshiro just smiled in agreement. In fact, all the Regulars did. All the Regulars and the non-regulars. Every member of the Seishun Gakuen Boy's Tennis Team smiled in appraisal of their good fortune – Ryoma Echizen was nowhere to be found.

Even Tezuka didn't really care where the prodigal boy was. It was just too hot today: not only was it the hottest of the year so far, but the hottest in history for this day. It didn't help that afternoon practice began at the hottest point in the day.

Kunimisu Tezuka had been in sports for a long time. How long precisely is unknown, because his age is unverifiable and is currently undergoing investigation by fangirls, faculty, a few of the Regulars, and even his sister. The boggling maturity, physically and mentally, of the tennis captain bewildered all. One theory is that Tezuka divulged into an anti-Fountain of Youth, if you will, and was secretly Buddha. Another popular theory is that Tezuka has some rare disease that ages him quicker than most; those who believe in this theory predicted Tezuka to die from old age on his 29th birthday. The most popular theory is that, at the hospital, the Tezuka family accidentally picked up a child who looked like a newborn baby, but was actually 32 year old.

Regardless, Kunimitsu Tezuka had been in sports for a long time. Therefore, yes, he did spend quite a hefty fraction of his life with sweaty males of all ages. Never in his life—from the 81 year old grandfather he ran with in the mornings, from the 34 year old man he played tennis with in the park, from the 19 year old college student he did yoga with occasionally—had he encountered such an impressively fatal perspiring scent.

How lucky. _If Ryoma Echizen doesn't show up at all for practice, everyone can run without weights. Heck, we can do yoga instead of tennis,_ sighed the captain. Closing his eyes, he smiled to himself.

"O-oh, O-sme—I mean, Ochibi! Haha, gee, I thought you were a no show!"

"O-oh darn! Err, I meant darn that you came late, not that you're here or anything like that..."

"Eiji-senpai, Momo-chan-senpai. I was being held after class by my teacher," Ryoma stated plainly, proceeding to drop his bag on the locker room bench unceremoniously.

"Oi, by the way, Horio – the teacher said you stink."

.

.

.

The junior's unwarranted presence somehow pissed the captain beyond belief.

He frowned. Hard. Really hard. Any harder and his pants would have dropped.

As the boys assembled in front of him, he spotted the distinctive forest-green locks of the accursed one. With that, his sullenness further resolved.

"10 laps today."

The crowd applauded at the diminutive amount.

"_Individually_."

The crowd clamored with confusion.

"You will all _carry me_."

The crowd groaned (though oddly enough, a few cheers could be heard distinctly). The blazing sun overhead reflected off his spectacles, hiding the vice in his eyes.

.

.

.

It was the worst after school tennis practice ever.

At least that was the consensus of the majority. A few unique categories of persons enjoyed the revolutionary practice.

First off, there were (again oddly) a few members who enjoyed sweating under the ass of Tezuka Kunimitsu (who will remained unnamed—like a lot of other elements in this story, is another tale all in itself). These unnamed individuals either had a slight curve to the line of their mouth or outwardly panted happily whilst they carried the lord master Tezuka. Again, they will remain unnamed. Stop asking.

The second category of person that enjoyed the practice was Sadaharu Inui. Being the unique practice that it was, he had seen things he had otherwise not known. From sweat capacities to anxiety strategies to attitudes towards Tezuka – it might not be directly related to tennis (in fact, not really related to tennis at all), but data was data. And that was gold in itself. Golden and delicious like a crisp chicken nugget. But actually. One anonymous tipper swears he heard Inui mumble to himself, "Mmm, data."

And of course, the final category of person that enjoyed this was Kunimitsu Tezuka himself. In fact, he had brought out a special, custom-made capacity carrying device. Though, if you asked anyone, it really was the love child of a baby carrier and a throne. Where he got the funds for this, no one knows for sure, but if you were to ask the captain himself, he will vehemently deny dipping into the tennis club finances.

Anyway.

Though the throne-chair-piggy-back-assistor accessory was glorious in its hot pink accents and LED light embellishes, Tezuka-buchou had decided, exclusively for the Regulars, to ride bare back. And bare back they were. No shirts, yes service. Umm, service of the carrying-the-captain-around-for-practice-purposes kind (gutter minds, feel free to leave).

Of course, crown prince Echizen would be last, the grand finale to an '"interesting" practice.

And boy did Tezuka make Echizen sweat. Counter-intuitive as it was, considering the sweat was the source of his resentment, Tezuka tapped into a bestiality within himself even he did not know he possessed. Arms crossed across his chest, chest puffed out, Tezuka even had the nerve to take Echizen's Fila cap and don it on his head as his crown.

Not a member of the boy's tennis team at Seishun Gakuen would ever speak of these moments again. The details were a haze, which was a blessing in itself.

Weird things had happened that afternoon. They were not to be revisited.

.

.

.

And they weren't done.

Generously, being the saint that he was, Tezuka-buchou had allowed a 7-minute break to the team to take a crap, drink some water, or whatever else a sweaty pubescent boy should choose to do after torture.

But he really had an ulterior motive. Knowing his team, he knew that in order to distract themselves from what could be a very scarring experience, the team would force high spirits out of themselves. A form of the defense mechanism that is denial, if you will. And with that distraction, he could make his move without drawing attention.

He approached a certain freshman member of the team.

"Echizen."

"Tezuka-buchou."

The prince narrowed his eyes slightly, doing little conceal his skepticism in his captain's approach.

"Echizen, as the future pillar of support for the Seigaku tennis team, please think of your performance.

And with that, he presented the little prince with a gift.

"Don't let your guard down."

And he left the little prince to make sense of the odd tube-like container. He turned it over in his hands, puzzled until one fact became clear instantly: _It had kanji on it_.

Being Echizen Ryoma, he could not be bothered with kanji. He did grow up in America, after all, and therefore his kanji reading skills sucked. A lot. The sight of kanji all over the label repulsed him from any notion of reading the instructions, the ingredients, or even the name of whatever product was in said container.

Being Echizen Ryoma, he also possessed astounding confidence in himself and his deduction skills. So he promptly opened the odd tube-like container without another thought. He peeled back some plastic, and with a twist of the cap, it was open.

_Huh_, he thought to himself, deciphering its contents. And then he proceeded to apply it.

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.

.

And so they began after school practice, part two.

It was really simple, actually. Four players to a court. You could call it doubles. All they had to do was rally.

Yes, all they had to do was rally while continually switching positions on the court in a clockwise fashion.

It was really simple, yes. But really taxing. Once one player would hit the ball, he would have to hurry and try to run to the other side of the court. In this weird, crazy, merry-go-round fashion, the team was working on their endurance. There were no stops, no pauses for serves, no retrieving of balls. The only objective was to keep rallying.

So, as a result, they got really sweaty.

The fact that it was _the_ hottest day of the year thus far wasn't of any considerable help.

The amount of sweat accumulated could potentially foster a paddy of rice. Although, the rice would most likely die and if not, taste unholy.

Boys began to collapse from exhaustion. One moment they were stumbling over to the next position in order to continue returning the ball. The next, and they were kissing the pavement.

Many balls became abandoned, baking under the sun. When a court was no longer able to continue because of the unconscious nature of some of the players, the survivors would fill in the holes of another courts. This continued on until there was only two courts left: Echizen, Kaidou, Kawamura, and Oishi on one, Fuji, Kikumaru, Momoshiro, and Tezuka on another.

While running to the next position, Kaidou Kaoru decidedly stripped off his tee-shirt, flinging it to the side. With this, he was relieved of an unnecessary weight and discomfort. Suddenly, his movements picked up pace, filled with more energy and fluidity.

Seeing the results of such a simple action, Ryoma decided to do the same.

And the apocalypse came.

One really ought to give kudos to Fila. Their shirt design had held back a monstrosity of stench. But now the container had been carelessly flung away (right into Oishi's face, actually. He was knocked out on impact). The odor was free to reign upon the nose of anyone in a 20-meter radius. Simultaneously, every Regular collapsed. It was as if the stench had not only attacked their olfactory system, but every other bodily system as well. Their muscles had lost the will to operate.

Kaidou grasped at the air, helplessly, as if begging a favor from God. Kawamura's face turned an odd shade of purple. Eiji began tearing endlessly, muttering "O'smelly, o'smelly, E-cheese-zen, o'smelly" like an incantation. Momoshiro's usually spiked hair deflated, wilting like flowers. Fuji's eyes opened devilishly, only to collapse with his face frozen as so. Tezuka's eyeglasses cracked.

Everyone else was already too dead to be further effected.

Ryoma looked around quizzically, taking in the slain bodies all about him, raising an eyebrow, not understanding what just happened

A fit of coughs assaulted Tezuka-buchou. "Echizen," he sputtered, "Why didn't you use the deodorant I gave you?" _Lord, WHY?_

"Deodorant?" Ryoma scratched at the back of his head. "I thought that it was some powder to help my tennis grip." He opened his palms to show his captain that he had successfully applied the deodorant all over his hands.

A part of his soul rotted in shame. _This_ was the boy that was to be his successor. The pillar of support? He couldn't even use a stick of deodorant.

Gasping, Tezuka, using the last of his remaining breath with the morsel of clean oxygen he could muster:

"Echizen, mada mada dane."

"Tezuka-buchou," Ryoma returned with a shrug. "Don't let your guard down."

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.

From a safe distance, someone was watching behind the chained fence. Inui licked his lips, quickly scribbling.

"Mmm, data."

* * *

**TBC.**

* * *

**A/N:** I'm not dead. Haha if you couldn't tell, I picked up writing again from the second "No applause necessary." Hopefully it somewhat transitions well and hopefully the writing style hasn't changed too obviously.

I'm sorry to die-hard fans of Tezuka to what I made of him in his chapter (but then not really).

Please review! Feel free to ask questions, because I know you have them. Or just welcome me, 'cuz I'm back biatches. :D

Started 11-26-2009. Finished 06-24-2012. Uploaded 06-29-2012.


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